Just like a flower, from a bud it blooms, in its time,
Just like the rainbow, it emerges only when the sun comes out,
After the rain,
Isn’t life a weaving of stories, of past, present and future,
I look to the past, there are parts that don’t fit with my time,
When did part of me die? I can’t recall or undo this line.
A long time ago, when dying inside was not a crime.
These are days of storm, of untold anguish,
These are days when we strive to survive the audacities, the sufferings, the lethal poisons of life,
Sometime in the future, it will cloud our memories,
Of the sad encounters that greet us in this time,
As the stories make history, and diminish the chance for us to forget,
The once upon this time,
It will never take away the pain of being part of the crime.